He raised his head from his meal and sniffed the wind. It was a familiar sent, so comforting, so lovely...he was running, running away from his family, his kin. He was leaving them for the one person he truly loved. He was leaving his herd.
Hidalgo ran faster as his nostrils flared, taking in more wind- and more sent. It was no mistake, Frank was nearby. Hidalgo ran faster, unaware of his surroundings. He remembered his youth, his days as a foal, his first few months of breaking. He was a mustang and one wild horse, difficult to break.
But this new man came, and he was diferent. Not hard or cruel, but soft and inviting. He was friendly and spoke to Hidalgo in a language he understood. He was asked to do things by this man, never told. It turned out the man liked to go fast. Hidalgo did, too.
And so they began to race, long distance. The way Hidalgo liked it. He was made to run that way. He was made to run in general. And the man, Frank, he was made to ride. He was part Indian. He was as free of spirit as his horse. Hidalgo looked around. He was galloping cross the grass, but there was a somewhat steep hill up ahead. Should he stop? Should he go around? Then he heard it.
It was a whistle. One saved for him by one man and one man alone. Frank Hopkins. Hidalgo whinnied in reply, running faster, faster than he had ever run before. Excluding in that far-away race. That was fun. Except when he fell. But even then Frank didn't abandon him. Then they had come home, and he was released by Frank. Back to a herd, which was so big it had broken off into smaller herds. Hidalgo had taken one for his own. It was a good size. Enough to keep him busy.
But still he rememberd Frank. He ran, using his strong mustang legs to pull him up over the steep edge of the cliff.
He reached the top and looked down. There, sitting at a campfire, was Frank, smiling. Hidalgo stopped, whinnying. This was his human. With this man he was comfortable. He reared back, calling to this human. He was home.